A Autumn-attic happaratus For measuring off our blooming fares! Oh, hang it all! They slang and slate us; They say we crawls, and cheats, and swears. And we surwives the sneering slaters, Wot tries our games to circumvent, But treating us like Try-yer-weighters, Or chockerlate, or stamps, or scent! Upon my soul the stingy dodgers Did ought to be shut up. They're wuss Than Mrs. JACKERMETTY PRODGERS, Who earned the 'onest Cabman's cuss. It's sickening! Ah, I tell yer wot, Sir, Next they'll stick hup--oh, you may smile-- This:--"Drop a shilling in the slot. Sir, And the Cab goes for just two mile!" Beastly! I ain't no blessed babby, Thus to be measured off like tape. Yah! Make a autumn-attic Cabby, With clock-work whip and a tin cape. May as well, while you're on the job, Sir. And then--may rust upset yer works! The poor man of his beer they'd rob, Sir, Who'd rob poor Cabby of his perks! [Illustration: A CONTENTED MIND. _Angelina_. "INCOMES UNDER £150 A YEAR ARE EXEMPT FROM INCOME-TAX. ISN'T IT LUCKY, DARLING? WE JUST MISS IT BY FIVE POUNDS!"] * * * * * TO A FEATHER-HEADED POET. Oh, mountainous mouther of molehills, weak wielder of terrors outworn, Discharger of sulphurous salvoes, effetely ferocious in scorn, Shrill shrieker and sesquipedalian, befoamed and befumed and immense With the words that are wind on an ocean, whose depth is unfathomed of sense, Red fury that smitest at shadows, black shadows of blood that is red In the face of a soulless putrescence, doomed, damned, deflowered and dead; Oh, robed in the rags of thy raging, like tempests that thunder afar, In a night that is fashioned of Chaos discerned in the light of a star, For the verse that is venom and vapour, discrowned and disowned of the free, Take thou from the shape that is Murder, none other will thank thee, thy fee. Yea, Freedom is throned on the Mountains; the cry of her children seems vain When they fall and are ground into dust by the heel of the lords of the plain. Calm-browed from her crags she beholdeth the strife and the struggle beneath. And her hand clasps the hilt, but it draws not the sword of her might from its sheath. And we chide her aloud in our anguish, "Cold mother, and careless of wrong, How long shall the victims be torn unavenged, unavenging? How long?" And the laugh of oppressors is scornful, they reck not of ruth as they urge The hosts that are tireless in torture, the fiends with the chain and the scourge, But at last--for she knoweth the season--serene she descends from the height, And the tyrants who flout her grow pale in her sunrise, and pray for the night. And they tremble and dwindle before her amazed, and, behold, with a breath, Unhasting, unangered advancing, she dooms them to terror and death. But she the great mother of heroes, the shield and the sword of the weak,